


lamb to slaughter

by House of Halation (glasshibou)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AU, F/M, and our unending thirst for au content, brought to you by the simp server's collective brain rot, but i do not use pronouns, dubcon kind of but tagged to be on the safe side, going to tag as female mc to be safe, this was a group effort i can claim responsibility only for some of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/House%20of%20Halation
Summary: no thoughts only holy knight MC x Lucifer contenthappy halloween
Relationships: Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 99





	lamb to slaughter

Every day of your life since you first learned to walk, you’ve trained for the moment before you now. Your swordsmanship is unparalleled, your drive and determination honed into a blade sharper and stronger than the one you hold in your hands now. All of the hurt and all of the heartache, all of the things you’ve let pass you by—all sacrifices in service of completing the task laid out for you here. 

At the other end of your blade rests a man. His throat is regrettably whole, his head still atop his shoulders. And he’s not really a man at all, youforce yourself to remember. The Church, had they been privy to your thoughts, would have been disappointed with your mistake. 

No, the creature staring you down isn’t a man at all, no matter how much he may look like one. One mistake is all that it would take for him to gain the upper hand and bring your world as you know it crashing down around you. 

It’s his beauty that takes you aback, even though you’ve been cautioned against it. Demons are unnaturally beautiful, the monks warned. That’s what makes them such adept predators; they take the beauty that is meant to be God’s and twist it for their own designs. This demon, then, must be particularly devious, to be smiling up at you as you hold a blade against him. 

“I am here to kill you,” you say, waiting for a reaction— _ any _ reaction at all that might put this situation back on track. When you hunted Lucifer down to the abandoned castle he called his home, you didn’t expect to find him alone in what was once the chapel. And you certainly didn’t expect to find that he’d turned it into something of a throne room for himself, the painted faces of the saints you venerate scratched out, crude designs painted over their bodies. 

Too long has the demon known as Lucifer terrorized human kind. 

This is what you were raised for, brought up on stories of how he could bring kingdoms to heel under his power, how God himself threw him out of heaven and away from divinity. You’ve been  _ chosen _ for this, selected by God to bring an end to His errant son. 

So… Why do your hands stall now, when you could end it all so easily?

“I am certain that is what you think will happen,” he says, a small smile tugging his lips upwards. It’s patronizing in exactly the way you can’t stand, the way that makes you grit your teeth. It reminds you of the smiles the monks gave you whenever you asked them something about the God that chose you to do His bidding—you were too young to ask such questions, they told you at first. Then you were being too impertinent; you should know better than to question His judgement, they told you when you grew older. 

But now is not the time to dredge up old musings, not with the demonic scourge sitting like a king right in front of you.

“I am,” you insist, determination set in your jaw. “Stand, so that you may have an honorable death.”

It’s the least you can offer him, you think. A better end to his story than being skewered by one of the humans he hates so much. You might be the method of his demise, but you are not without kindness. Even for your enemies. 

“I don’t think I will,” he tells you with a dismissive flick of his wrist that makes you grip your blade tighter, fingers pressed tight against the crossguard. “But you seem set on the idea.”

He treats it like a joke, even when you press the blade into his fine flesh and a tiny rivulet of blood seeps out from under the metal. It’s red. 

You hadn’t expected it to be red. 

Something about that draws your attention and you watch his blood leak down his throat into the stiff collar of his coat. Were demons meant to have red blood? It matches his eyes, the ones that bore into you like they might allow him to burrow into your skull to access your thoughts. 

“Your tyranny ends here,” you say, wishing your voice sounded as strong as it did all those times you practiced it to your own reflection. Still rivers and ponds and buckets of water all heard your impassioned speech about defeating evil—so why does your throat feel too tight when you have that evil in front of you?

“Tyranny?” Lucifer cants his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat further to your cold blade. “Over what may I claim tyranny? I do not lay claim to the world and all of the creatures it holds. I do not claim to be king in the heavens.” His face breaks into a smile, one that sends a rush of fear down your spine before you can catch it. Hatred lives in that smile, hatred so deep and cold you don’t think there could ever be an end to it. “No; that action lies at the feet of my Father.”

What could you  _ possibly _ say to that? That he’s a liar? That he’s a manipulator, a demon, the very being you’ve been training your entire life to kill? Your words die in your throat. 

“Put down the blade,” he orders, not bothering to make it sound like a suggestion. “And we may have a civil discussion.”

A civil discussion. With a  _ demon _ . His head should already be off his neck and at your side, you scold yourself. You should never have allowed him to speak. 

“No,” you snarl, pulling back on the blade so that you can thrust it into his chest. For being so feared, for being rumored to be so powerful, you note that he’s not wearing any visible armor. Folly on his part; you, at the very least, came prepared. 

The edge of your blade is a hair’s breadth from piercing his clothing when you hold, freezing your arms where they are.

“Stand,” you order him again. “Stand, and we can have a real fight.” He’s tall, you can tell, even though he’s sitting. But you stand taller than him, and you cannot bring yourself to kill a man you have to look down upon. 

“Tell me, knight. If you kill me here and now—which you have every intention of doing, I can see—then what becomes of you? I know of those you serve. Everything and everyone must have a purpose. But what happens to the holy knight they’ve raised like a lamb for slaughter when their purpose is served? What use can a butcher be to people of peace?”

Your fingers feel numb, but you can’t tell if it’s because you’ve been holding your grip too hard or because all of the blood has just drained from you at his words. 

“That isn’t true,” you say, voice hollow, before you’re even aware of what it is you’re saying. It isn’t true. It  _ can’t _ be true. 

_ (Can it?) _

And so falls your first line of defense; the surety that you entered the chapel with is stripped away from you as you recall the looks of disgust the monks gave to the visiting knights, to the soldiers that needed aid. You were never meant to see them, you’re sure of it. But you did, and now… You couldn’t bear to have that contempt leveled at you. Not from the people that raised you.

“You’re… lying.” But your voice wavers, and you hear and curse it at the same time. 

“Am I?” The smile that had been on his face is gone, replaced by mournful pity. And the answer is no—no, you can’t hear the lie in his voice. The tip of your blade falls to rest harmlessly on his shoulder, unsupported by your wavering arms. Still, the demon Lucifer does not move, allowing you to mire yourself in thoughts that drag you down from your sanctified perch, closer to his level. 

He meets no resistance when he takes the blade in his hand and pries the grip from your fingers, letting the sword rest against the tops of his legs.  _ Too easy, _ he thinks as he muses on the possibility of killing you. The order that raised you would not doubt find another if he sent them your head; and even he has to admit that beating back a holy warrior every few decades is growing tiresome. Perhaps simply killing their crusaders was no longer enough. 

You miss the gleam in his eye as you stare down at your hands. Hadn’t they just been holding your blade? When you look back up at the demon ( _ I never should have looked away, _ you chastise yourself) you see where it has gone. He’s tracing a gloved finger along the sharp edge, the one you had pressed against his neck. A small red smudge still remains on the metal. 

“Perhaps you could have actually accomplished your task with this,” he muses, speaking to you and not at the same time. You barely feel like you’re still in the room with him. He speaks as if it’s just him and his father and the profane saints in the abandoned chapel, like you’re barely of consequence. You reach for the little blade at your side, the one meant more for skinning rabbits than slaughtering demons. 

It will not be enough here, not when his reach will be so much greater than yours. Not when you would have to launch yourself at him and all he has to do is defend. Your fingers twitch at your side in irritation, fear long swept away by your bruised pride and the humiliation you feel at being unarmed so easily. 

The movement snaps his attention back to you, and you find that the blade is pressed against  _ your _ throat now. It happened so quickly, in less time than it takes for you to blink. A sharp pain blossoms against your neck and a warm trickle seeps down below your armor to your collarbone. The pain fades quickly and Lucifer’s eyes narrow at your blood, just as red as his. 

But the final blow does not come, and so your ferocious face is wasted on him as he pulls the blade away from your neck to leave it hovering a few inches above your shoulder. 

“I could kill you,” he warns. “Easily, and without remorse.” You know this, of course; that is just what demons  _ do _ ; the only question is why he has not already. Your lips part to tell him to get it over with, already, to stop playing with you. At least you’re standing, you console yourself. It will not be an entirely dishonorable death. 

And then he tosses the sword away. 

It clatters against the stone floor, far out of your reach. The blade clangs like disjointed church bells in the open space, making you wince even as the demon remains stoic. You watch, eyes wide, as he places the bad of his thumb up to his lips and pulls the glove off with his teeth slowly.  _ Agonizingly _ slowly. He holds the whole side of your neck in his gloved hand, forcing you to stare into his red eyes. 

The wound you inflicted on him has sealed itself shut already, drying blood no longer shining in the light that spills in through the broken chapel windows. Your own is a mirrored image of his, still bleeding freely but not dangerous. Not what you’d expected from a demon. 

“If your God cared for you at all,” he says softly, his bare fingers tracing across your face, “why would He send you here, alone, to defeat me? Doesn’t that sound cruel to you?”

You could end it here. You  _ could. _ The sword you brought might be gone, tossed aside like little more than a child’s plaything, but you still have your knife. It would be so simple. Just unsheathe it. Plunge it into his chest. 

He’s standing so close; he might not even notice you moving if you act quickly enough…

Lucifer dips his head down to your neck and presses his flat tongue against the red trail of your blood and you feel fire race through your veins—his infernal nature, no doubt. 

“I am not alone,” you force yourself to say, choking out the words. God is with you, just as He always has been. Right? But… The demon’s words have found their mark and slithered into your thoughts. You are human, after all. Mortal. Weak, when it comes to divinity—and what is this being in front of you if not a shard of divinity?

“No?” Lucifer makes a show of looking around the empty space behind you, searching, as it were, for your invisible ally. “Then I invite your comrade to show Himself. We are in His domain, after all.”

You grit your teeth at the silence that follows. Part of you knows that God does not bend to the wills of those beneath him, and certainly does not bend for demons. But the rest of you—the scared, pitiful child that still hides within you—is angry that He hasn’t shown up to offer any support. Would it really be so much to ask?

In the silence, you hear nothing but your own heartbeat and ragged breathing. That’s answer enough: you really are alone on this particular battlefield. Your fingers twitch around the handle of your knife and before you can think through your actions, you yank it from the sheath at your side. 

Lucifer, as you should have expected, is still faster. He grabs your occupied hand and forces your wrist back until you have to drop the little blade into his waiting hand. With one hand held up above your head and the other pinned between you, you have no defense against him when he turns your own blade against you. The metal presses against the column of your throat; you feel it jump against your skin where your pulse is heaviest. He gazes down at you, face blank. If he’s thinking anything at all, you can’t tell.

“It would be so easy to kill you,” he says as he drags the blunt edge of the blade across your throat, mimicking the movement he’d have to make to open it up. “ _ So _ easy, and there’s nothing here that could stop me.”

You swallow hard. It’s true; no matter how much you’d like to protest his words, it would be a fruitless endeavor. Your prayers—whispered quick and fearful in the dark—have gone unanswered by the very God that should have been listening fervently. This demon could—and perhaps would—kill you right here and right now. 

“It’s well within my right to slay the night that came to kill me,” Lucifer says, tilting your face up to meet his with the blade at your jaw. “Nobody would whine about how unfair it all is, or lament your passing. It is only what you were meant to do, after all.”

“Stop it,” you whisper at him, wishing your voice held more fire. Your movements cause the blade to nick the delicate skin on your face. Enough to sting—not enough to truly hurt. 

“But I think that killing you might only send you home to my Father, and I find that keeping his toys from him is… pleasing.”

You’re still processing the fact that Lucifer as good as said he wasn’t going to kill you when he tosses the knife aside. It falls next to your sword, just as useless. 

“See? All safe here.” The unspoken  _ for now _ looms heavy in the minute space between you, and the hand that rests heavy where your neck and shoulder meets undermines his words. “I have half a mind to keep you all to myself, you know. Well…” Lucifer smirks down at you, red eyes glinting like twin flames. “Perhaps more than  _ half _ a mind.”

_ Demon, _ you remind yourself too late. He’s ensnared you like a viper is said to ensnare its prey, and all it took was a few words and his eyes. You should be better than this, you know; you were  _ trained _ to be better than this. And where has the you that stood against him so fiercely gone?

You’re not sure. Lost in the belly of the whale, perhaps. And who knows what far shore you might be spat out upon. 

The thumb of his bare hand traces across your lips and you startle, brought back to yourself forcefully. He’d just been holding a blade to your throat—hadn’t he? Why is he now holding you almost like a lover would? He’s a demon, and you—

You…

Have been tossed aside. 

With his inhumanly red eyes staring down at you, filled with questions, it’s hard not to feel the weight of every abandonment settle heavy on your shoulders. Hard to remember that you have a duty to the people that thrust you out into the world, ill-prepared and more than a little unwilling. 

“Say my name,” Lucifer says, low voice laced with dark promises. “Say my name, knight. Allow  _ me _ to be the salvation you have been searching for.”

_ Conquest. _ You recognize the spirit in his eyes just a moment too late, just half of a breath too slow. Because without thinking too hard at all, you lean forward and whisper—

“Lucifer.”

He surges forward and claims your lips like an invading army and all that you can taste is iron and cinders and the toxic sweetness of overripe apples. The faint trace of your own blood is still on his tongue and you realize it with a shudder that sends you careening into him. Your knees feel far too weak, like your armor is dragging you down straight into the depths of hell—and you want nothing more than to cast it off like a snake shedding its skin—

“All that you had to do is ask,” Lucifer says into your lips, clever fingers already working at the leather ties keeping your breastplate and pauldron up. It’s wrong—so wrong—to think of the noises they make as sounding of freedom, of the inverse of the church bells that made you smile not too long ago. The angels in the glass seem to frown as they stare down at you, so you close your eyes when you moan and allow him to divest you of more of your layers.  _ Let them watch, _ you decide as you sink further into Lucifer.  _ Let them watch, and cast their aspersions.  _

It’s when you make that decision that you realize he’s been backing the both of you up, step by step, back to the throne he’s made himself. 

When you finally bring yourself to look down, you find that he’s sitting, legs spread as if inviting you to him. It feels wrong, somehow; he’s sitting like a king, still fully clothed while you’re standing, trembling over him in little more than the tunic you wear under your armor.  _ How did that happen? _ The past few moments have been a blur, one that you don’t care to sort out. You’re here, he’s here, and there’s a curious warmth spreading through your core. 

Lucifer smirks, like your thoughts are written plainly on your face. Maybe they are, for all you know. 

“Here,” he orders, the word a sharp command that cuts through the fog in your mind. You stumble a step forward until you can’t move any further; there’s nowhere else to go, and still he pulls you towards him. Lucifer slides his hand between your thighs and you shudder at the sweet warmth he brings with him, losing the battle to keep yourself from resting your palms against his shoulders. 

Part of you thinks that maybe you should be embarrassed by the slick he finds there, but whether it’s because he’s a demon or not, he doesn’t seem disgusted by what he finds. Quite the contrary; the flames in his eyes light up and he smirks up at you. 

“Eager, are we?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, though you have only vague ideas of what you’re eager for. Intimate relations were never part of any of your training. “Yes, I—”

But you cut your own words off because  _ no, _ you  _ shouldn’t _ be eager. He is a demon, he is Lucifer, and you are—were—raised to be his end. Your entire  _ life _ has been devoted to being God’s champion, to slaying the beast before you, so you should not, under any circumstances—

“Oh,  _ God, _ ” you cry out when his fingers tease at your entrance, warm and strong and sure in their movements. Your fingers dig into his clothed shoulders, all thoughts of rebellion purged from your mind. His thumb is pressed up against your sensitive bundle of nerves while his fingers stretch your out from the inside in strange and delicious ways. Lucifer presses down again,  _ hard, _ when he sees you looking into his eyes, and your knees shake beneath you.

“If there is a name you will invoke here tonight, it will be mine,” Lucifer demands. 

You nod, trying to keep your voice from crying out again as he opens the front of his pants up. You miss the movements he makes with his other hand against himself, too lost in the way he expertly plays with you. Bubbles of ecstasy race through your veins, but it isn’t enough—not yet, not this way. The two fingers he has inside of you curl back and  _ pull _ , the heel of his palm pressed hard and grinding against your clit. 

“G— _ Lucifer, _ ” you moan, eyes fluttering open as you stumble forward, one leg pulled up over his own. Your gaze is met by his manhood, standing talls and proud against the blackness of his clothes. Uneducated though you may be, you’re not  _ stupid; _ you’ve heard enough rumors to have an indea of what might come next, of where, exactly, that is meant to go. And it’s so close, anyway, that most of you can’t see the harm in just letting go and leaning forward and settling down onto him. 

Lucifer pulls his fingers from you and trails them up your body, leaving shining little trails where he meets your skin. He hooks both arms under your legs and tugs you against him, knees on either side of his hips, knelt over him in a facsimile of prayer. 

“Worship me,” he orders, and for the first time since he’s touched you he cedes control to your inexperienced hands. He can’t want chants and prayers and incense and flagellation; those would remind him too much of his Father, the deity that abandoned you in Lucifer’s own lair. And besides, they would offer him very little, not when he has a castle to claim as his own and he has you poised so beautifully above him. 

The homilies and hymns you memorized so fervently are useless here, so you allow your trembling legs respite and sink yourself down onto him, biting your lower lips savagely at his girth. Nothing could have prepared you for the fullness you feel, and a hesitant glance informs you that he’s only partly in. 

“Oh,” you gasp out, half in dismay as his hands land on your ass, guiding you to where he wants you to be. His eyes hold a reprimand that hasn’t made it to his lips yet, though you know it will be quick to follow. 

“Is this how you worship your god?”

You shake your head. “No,” you tell him, legs aching from keeping yourself held aloft. “No, it isn’t.” A strange well of fear rises within you, one that tells you to stand and collect what remains of your dignity, to flee this hellish place. Start over somewhere else, to—

“Ah, but I shouldn’t be cruel,” Lucifer sighs. “All new devotees start somewhere, do they not? Perhaps you just need some  _ guidance. _ ” As he grunts out the last word he thrusts his hips upwards, lodging himself firmly within you. His strength pushed through the last of your resistance and you keen as your stiff muscles react too slowly to accommodate him. 

“Lucifer, Lucifer,” you moan, hoping that he can hear your pleas for mercy. “Lucifer,  _ please. _ ”

But if the demon is your new god, he is an uncaring one; he chases after his own bliss using your body. The best you can do is hang onto his shoulders and try to keep your seat, shifting your hips to match his once you pick up on his tempo. 

“You’re tight,” he growls into your ear, and you swear you can hear the very earth shifting in his tones. “So tight. For me, hmm?”

His hits deeper than you’ve ever been touched before and any thoughts you might have had are washed away in the animalistic urge to rut against him. He could ask you anything in the moment and you’d agree, lost in the tidal wave of new feelings. 

“Stay here,” he whispers into your ear, as much a command as it is a request. You fist your hand in his hair to steady yourself and grind down, chasing the spot he’d hit just moments before. 

“Uhn,” is all you can manage to moan out when he returns the favor and pulls your hair, tugging your head back so your throat is exposed to him. Demons have sharp teeth; it was forefront in one of the first lessons you ever had and haunted your nightmares for weeks. You know now that those same teeth will stalk your dreams for years to come as he drags their pointed tips along the line of your artery. 

“Answer,” Lucifer demands, grabbing both of your hips to keep you from moving, holding you up like it’s no effort at all.

“Yes,  _ yes,” _ you whine, frustrated that he’s pulled away and isn’t giving you the friction you need. “Please, Lucifer, anything, just…” you lose your words, not sure how to verbalize that you want him back inside of you and grinding, to test your newfound limits again. “Please?”

It’s your submissive kiss to the edge of his jaw, a supplication to the higher being that he is that gets him to smile. Lucifer is sparing in his verbal praise, but his actions are loud enough when he drags you back down along his cock and sweeps his bare hand across your stomach to find your clit again. 

“Let go,” he whispers into your ear at the same time he sweeps softly over your nub. There’s little option but to follow his command. The coil pulled taught inside of you snaps and for the briefest of moments you think you see heaven before it’s yanked away, replaced with Lucifer’s bloodied gaze. 

If this is what people denied themselves heaven for, you think you understand. 

“Oh, my God,” you pant into his neck, thoughtless of his previous warning. You’re still shuddering when he shifts—slightly, not enough to dislodge himself but just enough to graze over your oversensitive skin—and lifts your chin with two of his fingers. 

“No. Your old god left this world long ago; all that is left is  _ me. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork this is based off of is [here!](https://lichpit.tumblr.com/post/632909858226765824/lunar-mammon-made-a-post-that-had-cursed-prince)


End file.
